Camouflage
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, but I cry myself to sleep every night wishing I did.
"Look presentable," you whisper to me spitefully as I carefully place more powder on my face. "Your hair is a mess."
I stare at myself in the mirror; the puff sits underneath my eye, on my cheek, for a moment. For that moment, I am porcelain, delicate, something to be admired. For that moment, I am content, satisfied, fulfilled.
For that moment, I am beautiful.
As you have chastised me many times tonight, I have no doubt that you are serious - but then you are always serious. Serious enough to let your temper get out of control. Serious enough to let your fist hit my face. Serious enough not to stop when you hear me whimper.
The puff is white, silky, feathery. It covers up the damage done - the damage you do me. It presents an impeccable face to the world free of bruising, free of frustration, free of fear. . .
When the only thing I want in this whole wide world is to be free of you.
I sit there, staring at this face in the mirror. This face that belongs to you, this face you molded, this face that is years too young to look this old. The scars can be covered, my love, but they never heal. I see you in the reflection, standing behind me, putting on your immaculate robes, your hair so perfect, your sneer cemented into place, and as I lightly tap the puff against my cheek, a soft dust appears and halos my face. An angel sitting in a pristine white chair with a devil behind her, always behind her, always taunting, always wanting, always needing, always more.
This little puff with a simple fine powder on it - it does its job, and it does it well. It changes reality, it hides the blemishes, it conceals the truth. No one would ever believe you capable of this, my darling husband - but you do it, almost nightly. You take what belongs to you, you take my dignity, you take. You force me to do things I would not ask the Dark Lord to do, and if possible, I hate you more than I hate him - he who stole my life, he who killed Harry, he who sent me into this prison they call a marriage.
The cosmetic blends in with my skin - that which used to glow in your presence has now become ashen and thin, wrinkled and broken, dead.
About as good as the skeleton it covers - this skeleton that used to have a soul, this skeleton that used to have hope, this skeleton that used to be a person, this skeleton that used to be me.
And as I put the puff down, I eye myself in the mirror, the once purple bruise under my eye is now a more pleasant lavender.
It screams at me, this bruise. Where your fist inconveniently made contact with my face. When you made me scream.
Your reflection looks at me in disgust, no doubt seeing the lilac bruise that swims on my face. It is no doubt pronounced when set against my pallid skin.
I am less than you wanted in a partner.
I am less than I ever thought I would be. . .
For I am your wife.
A/N This piece is inspired by an amazing work of poetry by a gifted writer named Glowing Embers, "Your Raggedy Anne." You can view her work by searching her profile using the Find feature above. She also uses the pseudonym cat-eyed- gypsy. Please check her out, she is one of the best poets on ff.net.
And, YES, there is an update of "The Unwanted" coming soon, but my muse was bored tonight so she decided to come and bother me.
Please read, and review if you want to. Thanks for your time.
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, but I cry myself to sleep every night wishing I did.
"Look presentable," you whisper to me spitefully as I carefully place more powder on my face. "Your hair is a mess."
I stare at myself in the mirror; the puff sits underneath my eye, on my cheek, for a moment. For that moment, I am porcelain, delicate, something to be admired. For that moment, I am content, satisfied, fulfilled.
For that moment, I am beautiful.
As you have chastised me many times tonight, I have no doubt that you are serious - but then you are always serious. Serious enough to let your temper get out of control. Serious enough to let your fist hit my face. Serious enough not to stop when you hear me whimper.
The puff is white, silky, feathery. It covers up the damage done - the damage you do me. It presents an impeccable face to the world free of bruising, free of frustration, free of fear. . .
When the only thing I want in this whole wide world is to be free of you.
I sit there, staring at this face in the mirror. This face that belongs to you, this face you molded, this face that is years too young to look this old. The scars can be covered, my love, but they never heal. I see you in the reflection, standing behind me, putting on your immaculate robes, your hair so perfect, your sneer cemented into place, and as I lightly tap the puff against my cheek, a soft dust appears and halos my face. An angel sitting in a pristine white chair with a devil behind her, always behind her, always taunting, always wanting, always needing, always more.
This little puff with a simple fine powder on it - it does its job, and it does it well. It changes reality, it hides the blemishes, it conceals the truth. No one would ever believe you capable of this, my darling husband - but you do it, almost nightly. You take what belongs to you, you take my dignity, you take. You force me to do things I would not ask the Dark Lord to do, and if possible, I hate you more than I hate him - he who stole my life, he who killed Harry, he who sent me into this prison they call a marriage.
The cosmetic blends in with my skin - that which used to glow in your presence has now become ashen and thin, wrinkled and broken, dead.
About as good as the skeleton it covers - this skeleton that used to have a soul, this skeleton that used to have hope, this skeleton that used to be a person, this skeleton that used to be me.
And as I put the puff down, I eye myself in the mirror, the once purple bruise under my eye is now a more pleasant lavender.
It screams at me, this bruise. Where your fist inconveniently made contact with my face. When you made me scream.
Your reflection looks at me in disgust, no doubt seeing the lilac bruise that swims on my face. It is no doubt pronounced when set against my pallid skin.
I am less than you wanted in a partner.
I am less than I ever thought I would be. . .
For I am your wife.
A/N This piece is inspired by an amazing work of poetry by a gifted writer named Glowing Embers, "Your Raggedy Anne." You can view her work by searching her profile using the Find feature above. She also uses the pseudonym cat-eyed- gypsy. Please check her out, she is one of the best poets on ff.net.
And, YES, there is an update of "The Unwanted" coming soon, but my muse was bored tonight so she decided to come and bother me.
Please read, and review if you want to. Thanks for your time.